The Concert
by sweetdreams-sunnymornings
Summary: Ranger works an in-country op while Stephanie hunts one of her regulars. Babe. R/S. Morelli is here, not happy but unharmed.
1. Chapter 1 Exit Wound

_**Standard fanfic disclaimers apply.**_

**a/n: This is a Merc Ranger story, very early on in his relationship with Steph. She is not w/ Morelli and just starting to dare to flirt with Ranger, just a little. Maybe around: JE book 5? or 11? My previous stories, _The Price is Right,_****_The Math Teacher _and my one-shot _alternative end _to JE 16 ****take place AFTER this story in my Plum world but you can read them if you find the people and relationships confusing. [or not.]**

**Babe. Morelli is here, not happy but unharmed.**

_**

* * *

**_

A/N:

For readers who questioned the guys' **ESP or **asked if Ranger really is an Unmentionable...[oh god, I hope not, the Diesel books are not part of Mercenary Ranger's world!] I am reposting the intro to The Price is Right. This is quoted from JE...and is the **inspiration to many aspects of my Ranger's world.:**

**Intro: **from Ten Big Ones [edited]: _Ranger was in S.W.A.T. black cargo pants and T-shirt. His hair was dark, and his eyes were dark, and his skin reflected his Cuban ancestry. __**No one knew Ranger's age... no one knew where Ranger lived or where his cars and cash originated. Probably it was best not to know. **_

_Ranger locked eyes with me. __**Sometimes it felt like Ranger could look you in the eye and know all the stuff that was inside your head. It saved a lot of time since talk wasn't necessary. **_

_"Babe," Ranger said. And he left. _

_"__**Cupcake, the guy's a mercenary."**_

* * *

**The beginning in italics is from Chapter 2 of Sizzling Sixteen, with some editing and a line or 2 from Ch 1. ****I'm a sucker for a Ranger moment!**

**enjoy**

**The Concert Chapter One**

**.**

**.**

_[from Sizzling Sixteen, excerpt/ Ch 2.+ some Ch 1. edited.]_

_I took the elevator to the control room and walked past the cubbies and consoles, waving to men I knew. _

_Ranger's office was a few steps down the hall. He was on the computer when I walked in, and he smiled when he saw me. A big thing for Ranger, since he doesn't do a lot of smiling. He's former Special Forces, is drop dead handsome in a dark Latino kind of way, and is sex walking._

_He was dressed in Rangeman black t-shirt, black cargo pants, and black running shoes. Everyone in the building was dressed exactly like this, but Ranger's clothes fit him better. Possibly because Ranger was clearly at the front of the line when God was handing out the good body parts. You could dress Ranger in a black plastic garbage bag, and he'd still look hot_.

... ... ...

**I shook off my hot flash, checked my face** for drool, and said, "Knock-knock."

"Is this a joke?"

I blew out a sigh and sat down in one of his luxurious guest chairs. "No. I have a line on a skip and I want to run the scenario by you before I go ahead with the pick-up."

A very brief hint of amazement flashed across his face."Okay."

"Um. You're doing event security for the Juniak campaign rally and concert, right?"

"Yes, it's a Rangeman contract."

"And ah, well, lotta big stars there, huh?"

"Yeah. Jersey-type stars anyway...Springsteen, John Bon Jovi. Rangeman isn't providing personal security to the bands, just to Joe Juniak and the event as a whole. We're working with TPD and Jersey State Troopers too."

He looked sort of interested in the idea of the concert which was to raise campaign funds for Trenton Mayor Joe Juniak, a fifth cousin twice removed of mine, who was running for the US Senate.

"You and Juniak are friends, right?"

"Yeah, we're friendly..." I noted the differentiation. "...but this is strictly business. I can't donate Rangeman services to this or that politician, it could come back and bite me in the ass someday...babe? Steph?"

I shook off my fantasy of biting that perfect ass and focused.

"Well, here's the thing. I have a skip who is going to be performing at the concert. I know he'll be there and I want to pick him up there. But I don't want to cause trouble for you."

"It wouldn't be the first time you've caused me trouble, babe."

I decided to ignore that. "So...?"

"I'll be working the event; I plan to go in undercover, not in uniform...mingle, watch for hot spots and so on. I probably can give you some back up."

"Thanks! Um, you're going to a concert—undercover?"

"Yeah, just a regular guy."

I tried not to smirk. "How does that usually work out for you, Ranger?"

He played dumb, said, "Works okay, babe. I've been running black jobs since I was a kid, no one ever recognizes me."

_Oh please. "_In, like, Iraq? South America? Afghanistan?"

"...Steph, it's classified—"

I held up a hand to shut him up. I _know _his entire life is top secret. I'm an idiot, not a dolt. I said, "Wher_ever_. Ranger, those places are not Jersey! And they're not arenas full of screaming groupies."

He actually hesitated, as if he was running ops through the Rolodex of his brain, remembering. Finally he said, "And?"

"And you'll cause a riot. Maybe you should work backstage."

"I can't work backstage. Most of the performers know me."

I stared at him.

"What? It's my job," said Ranger.

Carefully I said, "Maybe your undercover career is over, at least in Jersey?"

"I'll wear a baseball hat and sunglasses and take Tank."

I smiled at him. "Oh yeah that'll really help."

?

"Not," I added, still smiling at him.

Ranger may have a great blank face but his eyes can say _Let's not go there_ with a look that chills even me. He said, "Stephanie. Who is the skip?"

_Like I wouldn't notice the subject change?_

I shrugged, said, "You remember Sally Sweet?"

"How could I forget? He mowed down twenty Slayers to save your pretty white ass."

_Huh._ "So Sally got arrested yet again for drugs and public profanity."

"I'm surprised you'd take the file."

"Someone has to, he's failed to appear on a $500,000 federal bond. Vinnie's one step away from a coronary."

Ranger raised his eyebrows."High bond."

"Poor Sally, feds arrested him at the airport in Newark. But it's really just a slap on the wrist, no jail time if he gets to court like he's supposed to. But he doesn't want to mess up his current gig with this new band. He says they're awesome, they mix punk and heavy metal with hip-hop."

"Multiculturalism rules."

"So he's a sideline for them."

"Sideline?"

"Yeah, he plays bass, sings backup. Um, dances?"

Ranger maintained his carefully blank face. "I think you mean a _sideman_."

"Oh yeah. Sideline/ sideman...silly me. Soooo...if you don't get trampled by hormonally frenzied teenyboppers, can you help me bring him in after the set?"

"Thin ice, babe."

Ranger doesn't like having his looks pointed out, let alone dwelled upon. But I needed him in one hot hunky piece for the takedown. Sally was a good friend and I owed him bigtime. I was hoping that faced with Ranger he'd do like all the other cretins and felons...he'd stick out his wrists and beg for the cuffs. Not too many people want to tangle with Ranger.

I blew out a sigh and said, "If you get me a backstage pass, we can meet up at the end of the band's set, grab Sally as he comes off stage. Okay?"

"Yes. I'll have a press pass with backstage access to you by tomorrow. Steph—this may seem strange but I have to ask you to come unarmed. As security coordinator I cannot allow anyone armed into the venue."

_As if!_ I stared at him.

He relaxed back in his big, comfy boss's chair and said, "Oh yeah, nevermind."

I got up and feeling daring I walked around the desk and gave him a little hug, said, "Thanks again. See you Thursday night!"

I stepped away before he could hug me back or God forbid (yeah, yeah) kiss me. Instead he grabbed my hand, "What's the name of Sweet's band? I haven't seen the entire list yet."

"Exit Wound. The band is called Exit Wound."

Silence. Ranger's blank face graphically conveyed _eeewww _. Then we both cracked up laughing. I gave a him little finger wave and sashayed out to the elevators. The guys in the comm room watched me, awestruck.

_Stephanie Plum makes the boss - laugh._

**tbc**


	2. Chapter 2 A Change in Dynamics

a/n I hope this story is fun and you'll enjoy. I truly value reviews, so please consider checking in and leaving me a little feedback. Thanks for reading!

... ... ...

**From Chapter One: Exit Wound**: _I walked around the desk and gave him a little hug, said, "Thanks again. See you Thursday night!"_

_"What's the name of Sweet's band? I haven't seen the entire list yet."_

_"Exit Wound. The band is called Exit Wound."_

_Silence. Ranger's blank face graphically conveyed eeewww . Then we both cracked up laughing. I gave a him little finger wave and sashayed out to the elevators. The guys in the comm room watched me, awestruck._

_Stephanie Plum makes the boss—laugh._

* * *

**_The Concert_**

**_._**

**_._**

**_Chapter Two: A Change in Dynamics_**

**_._**

**_[Ranger]_**

**I watch Steph leave with a smile lingering on my face.** When I hear the elevator chime I wipe the smile off as if it never happened and buzz the door of the inner conference room. The concealed door opens with silent precision but I can see that the man who barged into my office was wishing he could slam it open then slam it closed.

_sigh...these feds are so uptight_, thought my covert half-brother Anthony Stewart from his seat at the conference table.

I calmly herd both Homeland Security agents—I'm gonna call them Smith and Jones for this op, they like that shit—back into the conference room and shut the door. This conference room is, well, discreet. Covert even. It has shielded walls, back entry, a smart table with built-in computers, and it records all sounds both in my office and in the conference room. _No issues later_...The audio system also allows the people inside to hear a conversation in my office. If I so allow. And stupidly, I had done so while the group waited during my conversation with Stephanie.

The meeting today involved myself, the two federal agents, Tank, Antonio and Vince.

Agent XXX, I mean _Smith_, steps up to me and growls, "You're going to let your girlfriend get involved with this job, Colonel?"

_She's not my girlfriend._

I say, "Ms Plum is a colleague, a bond enforcement agent."

"Nevertheless, is her presence really necessary?"

_As if I could stop her. _I stare at the HLS agent.

"Look, Colonel, this concert could draw out Abdullah bin Hasheed. You need to focus on the job."

Tank snorts, covers with a cough.

I say, "I've been running these ops for years, Agent Smith. Have some faith."

Snort, this time from Smith. "Years! You're younger than my sons."

"...And?"

_gulp._

In the sudden silence I can hear him swallow, my game face must be in fine working order today.

Smith chokes out, "I'm just saying..."

?

"...that the girl's presence could change the dynamics of the job. Your mind should be focused on the terrorists, on protecting the President, maybe peripherally on the security of the concert. And now you'll be helping this woman pick up a fugitive? You are only one man, Manoso. Not Superman."

_Tell that to Steph._

I frown a little.

"Look, gentleman, it will be fine," says Anthony. He takes his flipflops off my table and tries to look encouraging. He adds, "Let's sit down and discuss your job and your details. Let us worry about everything else."

I wave a hand at the smart table, pull out a chair and sit, and huffily, Smith decides to follow suit. Jones silently sits beside his partner. Both glare at me.

I say, "Vince, go ahead."

Vince shows slides, a Power Point thing. I'm annoyed because this is their op, these feds, but they caved and asked Rangeman to take over the job. Now here they are, needing to be brought into the loop. Rangeman is giving them the intell that they should have gathered and analyzed before they hired me. Us.

Anthony keeps telling them we're not spies. But they don't listen and so here we are. Anthony catches his name in my thoughts and glances at me. He sends me a vibe of a perfect pipeline wave on the North Shore of Oahu. Then he puts his feet back up and I force myself not to follow suit. Like Tank, I cross my arms over my chest and listen yet again to Vince's presentation of the known dossier for the asshole cretin I am supposed to, ah—_neutralize_ next week.

What? I told you I am not a spy...

_Action hero?_ Anthony rags me.

Oblivious, Vince shows a photo of a nice looking young man who, though dark complexioned, appears to be an American regular guy. In the picture he wears khakis and a golf shirt, cheap sunglasses. Short hair, clean-shaven. "This is a recent shot of Abdullah bin Hasheed who has come into our sights as a jihadist sympathizer. Or worse. He is 29 years old, half American, half Pakistani. He is an American citizen, born here in Englewood New Jersey. His parent were tolerant Muslims, sent him to college at Rutgers. He has a degree in Chemical engineering, worked for a chem products corporation in Bound Brook for the past five years. Married with three small kids. They go to public schools and the local mosque for religious schooling."

Vince runs through a series of other long lens shots, plus the man's passport photo and DMV picture.

"He seems to be an unlikely terrorist," muses Agent Jones.

"His parents died in a motor vehicle accident about 18 months ago, drunk driver, ran a red light. As soon as the estate was settled, bin Hasheed asked for compassionate time off, left his job, and went back to Pakistan supposedly for family reasons relating to the parents' death. But he never got to Pakistan as such, he ended up in the mountains northeast of Kabul, training with the Taliban and al Qaeda."

"How do we know this?"

"We have CIA and US military surveillance tapes, Agent Jones," answers Vince patiently. He clicks the video of the feeds.

Smith interjects, "Kabul? That's Afghanistan not Pakistan."

Anthony looks at him or a beat or two, says, "These are tribal areas, Agent Smith. The boundaries are not really marked. And the area is so isolated and primitive it makes our border with Mexico look like Grand Central Station."

"You sound as if you've seen it in person, Mr...ah?"

"Been there, done that, got the fuckin' t-shirt and got outta town without getting my ass shot, Agent Smith."

"Really." Smith eyes Anthony who is in surfer mode today—beads in his hair, flowered board shorts, long-sleeve surf shop freebie t-shirt, weapons not visible. (But there.)

"Yeah, reeeally."

"I didn't get your name?"

"No shit, dude."

I intervene, mostly because Smith and Jones don't need to know our details. "Vince, continue."

"Hasheed returned after six months, sold the family house, sent the wife and kids back to her parents' home in Islamabad. And now because his behavior hit a wrong note, the checks and balances instituted after 9/11 have shown hits on his credit cards—Home Depot, Mac's Garden World, items that, to us, say, _Suicide bomber_."

"But why the concert? Why are you thinking he's going to target that night, that venue?"

"The President campaigns for his party's candidates. He needs Democrats in the Senate and he likes Juniak. It is an open secret that he may attend_. And _we got a hit through Ticketmaster - bin Hasheed bought a five-hundred dollar arena floor seat for the show. And we are pretty certain a militant Muslim will not be a Bon Jovi fan."

"So, like, maybe he likes Springsteen?" deadpans Anthony.

"No."

**tbc**


	3. Chapter 3 Change in Direction

_**The Concert**_

_**.**_

_**Previously on The Concert**__: The meeting today involved myself, the two federal agents, Tank, Antonio and Vince. Agent Smith steps up to me and growls, "You're going to let your girlfriend get involved with this job, Colonel?"_

_I say, "Ms Plum is a colleague, a bond enforcement agent."_

_Smith chokes out, "I'm just saying...the girl's presence could change the dynamics of the job. Your mind should be focused on the terrorists, on protecting the President, maybe peripherally on the security of the concert. And now you'll be helping this woman pick up a fugitive? You are only one man, Manoso. Not Superman."_

* * *

_**Chapter 3: A Change in Direction**_

**_._**

**Ranger**

**Tank got up and escorted Agents "Smith" and "Jones"**out through the back door. Anthony leaned waaay back in his chair, hands folded behind his head, elbows out. Hole in the sleeve of his faded vintage Rip Curl tee shirt.

Silence.

He recrosses his feet on my six-figure conference table and I study the scuffed soles of his old Reef flipflops.

Finally I say, "Man, is that a beer can opener on the bottom of your shoe?"

My semi-brother, my stealth brother, bends his right foot back towards himself, takes off the sandal, peers at the bottom. Now I am treated to a view of his grubby foot and tattooed ankle, though I swear the guy must get pedicures, look at those nice neat toenails.

Anthony looks up at me from the flipflop and says, "Dude. It's built-in. Efficient. It's like for, you know...long necks. Beer, man. _Cerveza_?"

"Uh huh."

"Ingenious."

"Uh huh."

Anthony digs in his board shorts pocket, produces a stubby white plastic comb on a small tether. He says, "And look, is this not awesome? My shorts have, like a board-wax comb built in. I totally have it all, bro."

_Or not, _I think.

He drops the sandal on the carpeted floor and sits up, his foot rummaging around until he gets the flipflop back on. The whole time he stares at me in silence. Considering. Mood turning darker.

I cave. "What?"

"Dunno, man. Isn't this kind of a change in, like, direction for you?"

"What do you mean? I still take domestic guard jobs. Or Ranger Manoso does."

"I meant the girl."

"What girl?"

"Oh, man..."

"Stephanie?"

"Yes. Stephanie Michelle Plum, girlfriend to local cop, wannabee bounty hunter. Hot chick. That girl."

"She's not with the cop anymore."

"It's been two, three fuckin' years and she's not with you either, dude, what's with that?"

?

"Point is that fed might actually have a point here. Won't having her on-scene, trying to make an arrest, complicate things unduly?"

"Maybe. But if I told her "no" she'd just follow up without me and be even more likely to cause trouble for everyone involved."

"Trouble. And this is the little cutie you got the hots for? Little Miss Trouble? From Jersey? Are you out of your fucking mind?" he says calmly.

I stare. My feelings for—interest in—Stephanie Plum are not up for open discussion. I keep hoping cool and steady will win the race. Or the girl. Whatever.

I think, _Subject closed._

_But still._

_You don't know her, don't judge her._

_You're in fucking love with her, man._

_I know, shut up._ I block my mind hard and Anthony shrugs.

He says, "Door number two: why go after this bomber dude at a concert? Why not just take him out some morning when he goes into his garage to the car on the way to work? Or slip into the house at night, gggggrk"—he makes a casual slashing of the throat gesture—"end of issue. Job complete, send cash."

"Obviously there are some politics involved."

"Like—a publicity op?" says the man who never in his twenty-six/seven/eight (he lies) years wanted publicity. Skeptical, disapproving.

"Yeah."

"Sucks to be you, Rangeman."

... ... ... ...

.

_**Stephanie**_

_**the next day, Pino's**_

**I handed over twenty hard-earned dollars** and picked up the greasy white bag holding two meatball subs and a double order of chili-cheese fries. Stuffed the change into my jeans pocket and bumped hard into a familiar chest.

"Morelli."

"Cupcake."

Joe leaned down to kiss me but I turned my head away quickly and his lips just brushed my cheek. He said, "Got a minute?"

I held up my bag of food. "Lula's waiting for me. Lunch."

"Two minutes. It's important."

I blew out a sigh. Morelli _always_ thinks he's important. Joe and I broke up months ago, but he still thinks he's _the man_, go figure. I nodded but warned him, "If you try any of that _the boys miss you_ shit, I'm outta here, Joe. And don't even think about playing the Bob card, I stopped by your house and walked him an hour ago."

"How'd it go?"

"Well, _he did_. Go, I mean. Then he ate Mrs. Lucchese's hydrangeas, gonna be barfing blue stuff tonight." I hid my glee, I hoped.

"Sit for a sec." We sat and he asked Maria-Teresa for two cokes.

"Talk, Joe. I'm busy. And Lula's hungry."

He grimaced, doesn't much care for Lula—but got down to business. "I hear Rangeman is running security for Juniak's fundraiser, the show at the new Meadowlands Arena."

"We're doing event security for the benefit." Joe frowned. He also doesn't like me to identify too closely with Rangeman or its owner, he thinks it's just a little part-time hobby. Safer than bond enforcement, but not as good as barefoot and pregnant in his, Morelli's, kitchen. But I like a steady paycheck, and while Ranger makes me wear black clothes, he does NOT make me wear pantyhose. And I enjoy the companionship of a bunch of very hot men.

Joe shook off his annoyance, said, "I'm working a joint undercover job with ATF; I need a cover, I need a way in. A ruse."

"Buy a ticket? I'm sure Joe Juniak would appreciate your support."

"No way, two hundred bucks just to sit in the Siberia seats, _five-hundred _for floor-level. I figure Ranger can get me in, get me backstage or a VIP pass."

Hearing my own motives coming from Morelli's mouth made me squirm a little. I had asked for Ranger's help with Sally's pick-up mostly because I too wanted a free pass into the show. And I had the idea that, with Sally was so star-struck by his new band pals, he might not want little old me to haul him off in handcuffs after the show. But being arrested by Ranger, oh wow, Sally would—in his very own words, think that was _fucking awesome_. A win-win thing, plus a job with Ranger, what more could a Jersey girl want or need?

"Cupcake? Stephanie?"

I redirected my attention to Morelli and calmly said, "Rangeman turned down the performers' private protection contract, he doesn't have enough guys right now, a lot of his men are deployed in, um—uh."

_Well, I never ever thought I'd use the Merry Men's 'uh' ploy._But Ranger has moved his company more and more into the PMC-private military contractor- arena. And it was so classified, sometimes I wondered if even Ranger knew where his men were stationed.

"Rangeman is supplying bodyguards for Juniak and his wife, his chief of staff—Ranger still takes a few bodyguarding contracts. Tell me more what you need…?"

Joe explained in as little detail as he possibly could.

I cut him off after a moment, so annoying. _He's asking me—and Ranger—for a favor, then he waffles about the intell?_ I said, "I'm sure Ranger can get you in, provide a cover story."

"Yeah, the big man. He could get us in to see the friggin' President, probably, right?" Joe was sarcastic.

From behind him a neutral voice said, "Do you really want to meet the President? I can't see how he'd add anything to this op. And logistically his presence would be a nightmare."

Joe jumped a little, cheekbones went pink, eyes went dark and beady. He craned his head around to look at Ranger. "It was a figure of speech, Manoso."

"Uh huh."

**tbc**


	4. Chapter 4 I Can Pay Cash

_**A/N: **For readers who questioned the guys' **ESP or **asked if Ranger really is an Unmentionable...[oh god, I hope not, the Diesel books are not part of Mercenary Ranger's world!] I am reposting the intro to The Price is Right. This is quoted from JE...and is the **inspiration to many aspects of my Ranger's world.:**_

**_._**

**Intro: **from Ten Big Ones [edited]: _Ranger was in S.W.A.T. black cargo pants and T-shirt. His hair was dark, and his eyes were dark, and his skin reflected his Cuban ancestry. __**No one knew Ranger's age... no one knew where Ranger lived or where his cars and cash originated. Probably it was best not to know. **_

_Ranger locked eyes with me. __**Sometimes it felt like Ranger could look you in the eye and know all the stuff that was inside your head. It saved a lot of time since talk wasn't necessary. **_

_"Babe," Ranger said. And he left. _

_"__**Cupcake, the guy's a mercenary." **_

* * *

**The Concert**

_**from an actual news brief:**_

**World's most luxurious armored limo revealed**

If you're worried about getting to work safe and sound, the Knight XV is the luxury car for you. This £325,000 armored SUV dwarfs a Range Rover and comes with. It's based on a massive **Ford F550 pick-up truck**, uses a whopping 6.8-litre V10 engine with 400bhp that can be started remotely before reaching the car, and it weighs in at five tons. The company that builds the **Knight XV Conquest**, says it will tailor the armor plating to each customer's requirements, but every version comes with **bodywork and glass that can withstand gunshots for 24 hours**. All of the door hinges are reinforced to cope with the added weight of the armored protection and the panel between the engine and passenger compartment is also **strengthened to guard against bomb blasts**.

Tick all of the options boxes and the price of the Knight XV soars to an incredible **£650,000.**

**£ 650000 = $ 935, 251.7986**

* * *

_**Previously on The Concert**__:_

_"Hasheed returned after six months...and now because his behavior hit a wrong note, hits on his credit cards that to us say, Suicide bomber."_

_"But why the concert? Why target that night, that venue?"_

_"It is an open secret that the President may attend."_

_._

_._

_**Chapter 4 : **_**_I Can Pay Cash_**

**_._**

_**Six months earlier...**_

_**Toronto showroom of Conquest Custom Vehicles**_

**_._**

**Ranger**

**The limo salesman seems nervous, guess he doesn't like** our looks. _Probably he'll LOVE the color of our money,_ I think cynically.

I catch a wisp of his actual thoughts, he's so scared he is broadcasting. Something along the lines of _armed and dangerous...pimps, gang guys, film stars._ I turn my head to check on him, hope he doesn't stroke out if I decide to buy these steroid-pumped joyrides.

Anthony has dragged me here to Toronto to check these vehicles out. We could have just stopped at Fort Benning and stolen a couple, three, tanks-but no, Anthony loves this shit. Money to burn and all. The boy needs a hobby...besides mayhem and money, that is.

_This is so awesome, man. We gotta have this_, he thinks to me and takes another nonchalant ramble around the vehicle under consideration. In the time-honored fashion he toes the front tire and shrugs, looking like a little kid seeing the FAO Schwartz Christmas toys catalog for the first time. Oh sure, his face seems blank, but he's got a jones goin' here.

What? FAO Schwartz is bugging you? We can't help it, we grew up-ah, privileged, let's call it. Forget Newark's answer to the Burg...that's a con, a cover.

I tell the stammering salesman-Neil Patterson, his name tag says, to give me the details once more. I say, "Run this by me again. Briefly."

The Conquest salesman begins the list : "This is the Knight Ex Vee. It is entirely hand-built on a Ford F550 pickup chassis." He counts stuff off on his fingers: "One, it is bombproof; two, it is bulletproof; three, it is luxurious; four, it is unstoppable, five..."

"Yeah, yeah, gas mileage, dude?" interrupts Anthony.

"Well, if you get the turbocharger kit that boosts power to 550 hp...I am assuming you'll want the speed and power?"

"Uh huh."

"The mileage, well...is that really an issue , sir?"

Anthony shrugs. I am thinking, _Twenty-four hours of bulletproof glass? Then what? _and..._So I got, say, the President—or some foreign bigshot—holed up in there for 24 fuckin' hours...where's the man gonna take a crap, huh? Are we gonna have gold plated piss bottles and, um, fancy Saran Wrap dispensers? How much is that gonna cost and how will it play with the clientele?_

Anthony thinks_, Chem toilet? Privacy curtains?_

_Eeeeww._

_Real men don't say eeeew, dude._

The salesman —Neil—interrupts our silent convo to say proudly, "With all the bells and whistles, gentlemen, this vehicle is _priced right_ at UNDER one million dollars!" Then, "$935,251...and seventy-nine cents!" he announces, furiously working the calculator app on his iPad.

"Seventy-nine cents, dude? You gotta be..." sputters Anthony, who _hates_ being nickel-and-dimed.

I deflect his annoyance, say, "Can you give us a group rate?"

"Group rate?"

"Yeah, a discount for buying in bulk. Quantity purchase discount?"

"In bulk?" The salesman is maybe stuck on the idea of selling more than one of these monsters. Going nuts over the commission aspect. Sees a plaque coming for his cubicle wall, _**Sales Rep of the Year!**_

I sigh, wishing the Conquest owner had been available, instead of called away with a sick parent. Making do with the little guys wastes my time. I say, "Maybe, say, six to begin with."

"Six! Six, sir? I will have to discuss terms with the owner but I am sure..."

"Good. I hope the multiple order will not create any untoward delays."

"Delays, sir?"

"I can pay cash if it makes a difference," adds Anthony. He's getting antsy, wants his toy-now.

Neil's eyes get buggy and his face gets even paler than normal for a white guy in Toronto in January. We can tell he is thinking: _Shit. Drug dealers. Criminals. Organized crime...Sopranos? They don't really look Italian, they look kinda Hispanic, except the one guy has blond hair, and what's with the beads in his hair anyway?_

_Anthony and I both recoil from Neil's mental onslaught and throw up blocks to shut him up._

"Just let me..." Neil motions towards Conquest's executive offices, but he is thinking of dialing 911.

_Is it 911 in Canada? Or 999 like in the UK?_

_Who cares, bro. Focus,_ I answer.

"Oh and by the way...," says Anthony, trying to calm our Neil down, "do you deliver?"

"Of course, sir. Where to?"

"That's classified, "I say, but my brother blurts out, "Kabul."

_And one in Trenton._

_One in Manhattan...I get one, right?_

_It's your nickel, little brother. Enjoy._

I hand Neil a Rangeman Private Military Contractor card, with all my DC contact numbers on it. Not that he knows he'd be calling the DoD or Secret Service or CIA...but he'll learn.

I say, "Serve and protect, my man..."

Neil looks at the card, reads the logo: **RMPMC.**

I can tell he makes the mental jump and gets it when he says, "Awesome. Sir."

... ... ...

**Six months later we stood in the garage at Rangeman Trenton.** The Knight XV has been delivered. Another has been delivered to Anthony in Manhattan, four others shipped via US Special Forces C130 transports to the Middle East.

It's big, it's black, it's bombproof. I love it.

In a way it's a shame it's a limo because I'd love to drive this baby around Stark Street most nights. Badass. Ranger Manoso: badass.

Tank, Lester and Bobby Brown have circled the vehicle a few times, now stand hands on hips, dying to be given the keys, though they maintain rigorously blank affects.

Tank says, "Subtle, Rangeman. Subtle."

I nod. "Low profile."

"And it's bombproof," adds Lester happily.

_God, I hope so..._

_**tbc**_


	5. Chapter 5 Show Time

**a/n** Many, many thanks to everyone who continues to read, who bookmarks my stories...and especially thanks to those of you who read and review! I truly treasure every comment. Thank you!

sunny d.

* * *

_**The Concert **_

**_._**

_**previously on The Concert:**_ Joe said, "I'm working a joint undercover job with ATF; I need a cover, I need a way in. A ruse."

"Buy a ticket? I'm sure Joe Juniak would appreciate your support."

"No way, two hundred bucks just to sit in the Siberia seats, five hundred for floor-level. I figure Ranger can get me in, get me backstage or a VIP pass."

* * *

_**Chapter 5**_

**_._**

_**Agent Smith **_

**My boss at the Federal Joint Anti-Terrorism Task** Force, also known as ATTF, insisted we meet yet again with the man he called Ranger.

"If he's so good why don't they just leave this in his capable hands?" I asked Jones.

"Because the politicos want a photo op. And the more terror publicity they get, the more money the US taxpayers are willing to pay for their safety. And that trickles down to you and me, partner."

"Yeah but I don't want to have that conversation with Manoso."

"He won't care, he's getting paid big bucks."

"Maybe we should freelance too, Jones."

"Yeah, right. Go ahead, ask him for a job."

I had a vision of myself trying to convince the man who ran all those badass operators both here and abroad that he needed to hire _me_. Ass pucker time, just the idea. But I was cool, I said to Jones, "Ya think they get dental?"

"Oh yeah...here's the turn, Smith," said Jones in unison with the GPS woman, who said, _Make a right turn in 100 feet._

I glared and drove in. Parked my government POS in a sea of shiny black vehicles, each one nicer than the next.

"Whoa! Look at the Porsches!" sighed Jones. "Man, he has one of each—a Turbo, a Cayenne, and—that's the new sedan, right?"

"Yeah. Starts at a hundred-fifty grand, Jones..."

On our previous visit we had been brought here under guard, escorted through the main lobby. The building was nondescript outside, tastefully if minimalistically expensive inside with an array of high tech electronics that made us both yearn for the private sector.

Today an expressionless man in black fatigues waited for us by the elevator. He nodded a greeting, keyed us up to the private conference room.

We sat and I hauled out my little spiral notebook, reviewed my notes.

"Smith, that thing makes you look like an asshole, you gotta get with the program." Jones had his iPad out, was tapping away busily. I like my notebook...no one can read my writing and no one can link in secretly and spy on what I am thinking.

I just shrugged at Jones and Manoso silently walked in followed by the large black guy. Jones and I both jumped a little and Jones breathed, "Make a noise, why don't you?"

Manoso must have good ears because he looked at Jones and said, "Making a noise can get you dead, Agent Jones."

Jones gulped and said, "Yessir," then looked pissed at himself for being obsequious.

Manoso turned his cool black eyes towards me and nodded briefly. He said, "You remember my XO, my second in command, Tank, right?"

We both nodded to the larger man, who stared back at us like we were cockroaches in his salad.

No surfer dude here today, I noticed.

Manoso sat down, waved us all to chairs. He said, "Mr. Stewart will not be part of this operation, he is otherwise engaged."

We nodded _okay_. Far as I know the feds are paying for Manoso's expertise and only that. And surfer dude, who I was guessing was the aforementioned Mr. Stewart, made me nervous. The killer eyes, and all.

Manoso said, "Why are we here?"

I referred to my notes and began. "We have been trying to trace to the materiel that Abdullah bin Hasheed will use for the bomb. It's the kind of amateur setup where his jihadist cell may take care of provisioning him with C4 or dynamite. We are thinking a drop off place, maybe prearranged."

?

"Like a bus station locker or a mail drop..."

"Smith, Jones...where are you from?"

Small talk? I hesitated, tried to change gears. "We both work out of the DC office, Mr. Manoso."

"Gentlemen. While we appreciate the necessity of allowing your input, I think we should note that all bus depots, train stations and airports in the greater NY-NJ metropolitan area had their storage lockers removed after 9/11. I'm fairly sure that is true of the DC area too, though of course as residents you may know better than I do."

With those cars and all his money, this guy probably hadn't been in Penn Station, let alone a Greyhound depot, in years. If ever. But... "Well, you may have a point, sir."

Tank touched the screen of his station at the smartTable, spoke neutrally. "Hasheed's brother-in-law worked construction-building demolitions-in Texas. He left his job suddenly in March of this year. The demo company also informed local police in Austin that approximately 150 kilos of dynamite and 50 kilos of C4 have gone missing over the past year. The locals informed ATF who made note but did not connect the theft to the former employee, because they said—and I quote— _'Assholes come and go all the time, they're scared of La Migra, they get antsy feet, they hold up a Seven-11, who the hell knows?'_ However we were able to tie this all together and it seems fairly certain that is where Hasheed is getting his explosives."

"How did...? Um. I see." I was stammering.

Jones said, "You didn't think you needed to share this with us?"

Manoso just looked at us. Tank said, "We are sharing it now, Agent Jones. Is there a problem?"

"Ah, um. No. Nevermind."

Manoso said, "Good. The new Meadowlands Arena opens with the benefit concert on Thursday. We have coordinated jurisdiction for the op with state police and the locals in East Rutherford. Be here at 1600 for an op briefing. Concert starts 8-ish."

_Did he really say eight-ish?_

He said, "Bring your guns, agents. And your flak vests."

"Yessir."

"Dress to blend."

"Sir?"

Manoso implied a sigh and said, "Pretend you're undercover. Dress accordingly."

Tank added, "Wear jeans, sneakers, t-shirts." He cut his eyes to his boss."Not black."

"Understood," we responded.

Jones and I sat a moment, then Manoso made a tiny gesture with one hand, like_, shoo_. "Dismissed."

...

_**The following Thursday at The New Meadowlands Arena, East Rutherford NJ**_

_**Joe Morelli **_

**I met up with Ranger and Steph in the parking lot.** Ranger was as always shadowed by the Merry Men, in this case Tank and Lester Santos and the big, beefy black guy who often guarded Steph. I didn't know the guy's name. They stood back against a black SUV and watched us while Ranger and I talked.

Ranger said, "During the concert, we can work the crowd in plainclothes, talk to people."

i said, "Do you have a pass for me?"

The stare. Of course Ranger had a pass. Passes, actually, for everyone.

Stephanie said to Ranger, "You can't mingle with the crowd. Are you crazy! We had this conversation the other day!"

Ranger looked at her. I think I'd piss myself if he looked at me like that. But he just said quietly, "Excuse me?"

Stephanie got animated, waved her hands at him. "Look at you! You'll get mobbed—_you'll_ need bodyguards."

? [Eyebrow twitch.]

"I _told_ you! _Look_ at you! People will think you're a friggin' star."

"Babe. I didn't shave, I'm in disguise."

"That's ridiculous, Ranger. You look way too hot."

_"Babe."_

I sighed to myself. That was the fucking problem. How Ranger ever had made a career of doing undercover work was a mystery to me. Tonight Manoso was dressed to ''blend" in baggy/raggy/ frayed/ cost five hundred bucks jeans, a tight faded black vintage Guns 'n Roses concert t-shirt with a leather jacket on top to cover his guns. Black shades. Diamond ear studs. Long hair loose and straight halfway down his back. Unfortunately sexy three day stubble making his dark Latino looks even darker and more dramatic, his brief smile even whiter. With the sunglasses, he looked like a Hollywood star. Or a freakin' rock star. He looked like he was _someone._

Which I reluctantly supposed in his own way, he is. But that's not the point here...

The Rangeman guys were hardly more discreet either. Tank and the unknown-name guy could easily be hip-hop artists. They were handsome is a frighteningly scary way, expensively dressed in ghetto high style. And Lester Santos looked so much like Ranger it was absurd. So low-profile wasn't his forte either, because even though he had shorter hair, he had the looks and the diamond earrings and the megabucks smile.

For once in her life, my Cupcake was right: these guys didn't _blend_.

Manoso turned his cold eyes to me. Geez, I hope the ESP thing was just a rumor, because he might not be happy that I still think of Stephanie as _my Cupcake_. To distract him from killing me I said, "Maybe you should work backstage."

"We had this conversation. Subject closed."

No way! I said, "And without using your event rent-a-cop credentials, how will you get inside with all those guns? There's a metal detector and they'll search you. All."

Ranger smiled and said, "No problemo."

He jerked his chin at the guys and put his arm around Steph ushering her towards the entrance point. When we got up to the front by the guards, I showed my badge and was waved through on the side. I glanced back at Ranger and the Merry Men and smirked. Ranger and all the other guys casually flipped open some sort of ID wallets and the guards goggled at whatever it said. Then waved the guys through just like they had me. Only with more respect on their faces.

Ranger said, "She's with me."

And the guard said, "Siryessir!"

Inside Steph asked, "What was that?"

"EBay, babe. You can buy a badge online, you know that." He gave her a little friendly (_but still!_) hug and smiled down at her. His endless cool, their easy relationship, his gentle way with Stephanie almost killed me. Stark envy wasn't an emotion I was familiar with, I _am _Joe Morelli, after all...

"That's where the boss got that gay t-shirt, beautiful. He looooves eBay!" laughed Santos.

"Maxes out his AmEx Black card all the time."

"I don't think so," said Steph.

Manoso looked at Stephanie and said, "Remember our deal, babe."

"You and your deals!" She laughed but with a hint of annoyance.

"Babe."

"_Yes_. I will not attempt to detain Sally Sweet until after he performs and I will wait til you give me the all-clear."

They locked eyes for a too long moment, then Manoso gave a minuscule nod. Steph reached out and squeezed his arm and his face amazingly relaxed again into what was almost a smile.

He then got serious and handed out passes on neck strings. Photo IDs. He paired Steph and the big guy whose name seemed to be Junior, sending them backstage, organized my DEA colleagues as backup and conferred briefly with a couple of guys who -much to my dismay-appeared to be federal antiterrorism operatives. I had to wonder if there was more going on here than event security and Steph's fugitive apprehension.

Manoso partnered me and Santos and headed off with Tank.

I watched them go, stifling a laugh and shaking my head when a woman fell into a trash barrel because she was staring at Ranger. They disappeared but we heard fangirl-style screams.

Lester was laughing too.

I said, "Yeah, you're laughing now, Santos. Wait til the teenyboppers see you!"

"Hey, I can pass, I can do smoke, I'm in the wind, man. Watch and learn."

I sighed. Long long night ahead. I forced myself to focus on the job.

**tbc**

**a/n the acronym XO stands for executive officer, means the second in command.**


	6. Chapter 6 Rumor Has It

_**The Concert**_

_**.**_

_**Previously on The Concert**__: ...Ranger paired Steph and the big guy whose name seemed to be Junior, sending them backstage, organized my DEA colleagues as backup and partnered me and Santos. Then he headed off with Tank._

_._

_**Chapter Six ~ Rumor Has It...**_

_**.**_

_**.**_

**Stephanie**

**.**

**I watched Ranger and Tank fade into the crowd**, feeling a little miffed. Not only had Ranger chosen to partner with Tank, he left me with my own Baby-Tank aka Junior. Not that I don't like Junior! He is actually a sweetheart, not to mention relentlessly polite. But tonight in their hip-hop clothing both he and Tank looked like very large versions of 50Cent back in his baddest thug days. If my mother finds out about my "date" I'm dead meat. Or at least cakeless. In her defense, it's the thug part that would worry her, not his ethnicity, alright?

"Where to, Ms Plum?" asked Junior in the sugarcane Southern drawl that neither Ranger nor the military had successfully eradicated. I looked him over and decided that a 50Cent clone was better than Morelli's fed sidekicks who wore dorky knitted watch caps (despite the heat) and ass-crack jeans and white wifebeaters, looking like pale and scrawny versions of Eminem.

Junior said, "M and M's? Maybe there's a snack bar, Ms Plum." I glared at him and wondered if I had been mumbling out loud or he had the Rangeman ESP going there.

I said, "No! No candy. We'll get a beer later." Junior opened his mouth and I held up a hand. "Do _not_ argue. Please."

"Yessir Ms Plum."

"Please call me Steph. And since we have press passes that let us go backstage, let's head there first."

Junior actually laid a hand on my arm. Gently, carefully but still... "You promised the boss, Ms Plum."

"We're just doing recon." He smiled. "Let's go."

I strode off towards what I thought was the back of the arena.

Fifteen minutes later we ended up right where we started. No backstage.

"Let's ask security," suggested Junior. He walked over to a non-Rangeman rent-a-cop who put his hand on his nightstick and looked like he wished he was armed.

I trotted after Junior, got there first and asked the rent-a-cop, "Where is the backstage area?" I held up my press pass which was clearly marked BS and I was hoping that actually did mean _backstage_ and not _bullshit_, a sneaky Ranger way of keeping me safe.

In a bored tone the guard said, "Take the elevators to down to B-3. That's the backstage area for the music groups." He pointed.

"Basement?" I asked. "You're telling me the backstage is in the fuckin' basement?"

"Yeah, lady, B1 is private VIP offices and board rooms, B2 is locker rooms for the Jets and Giants and visiting teams. Singers and politicians get to go to three. Ladies toilets on B6, that other elevator there." He pointed again.

Junior and I stared at him. The guard shrugged, "It's a new system, what can I tell you?"

Like I'm gonna wait for a freakin' elevator if I have to pee? C'mon! And what's the point of getting to go backstage at a concert if you're so far underground you can't see or hear the bands? Junior took my elbow and steered me to the elevator. Ranger trains his men well: focus on the goal and all that shit...

"I can't believe the backstage is in the fuckin' basement." I glared at Junior, surely Rangeman had briefed him.

He shrugged, "I didn't know."

I bitched at him, an easy target, "A basement. You know, picking up a skip in a basement offers a lot of difficulties. Number one being, you're fighting some asshole in a basement!"

Junior looked like his church-going mama would have washed my mouth with soap. He didn't respond, taking refuge in Rangeman stoic silence.

The elevator doors opened to-bedlam. An open lounge area filled with musicians, from rock and roll greats to wannabe backup dancers. The noise was deafening.

I grabbed Junior's arm. "Look! I swear that is Jon Bon Jovi!" I pointed discreetly.

Junior looked blank—he was all of maybe 24—and asked, "That old skinny white man? He's our skip?"

"No! He, he's famous! Like Springsteen!"

"Uh huh."

Jersey hasn't produced a lot of big names in hip hop, so Junior's scan of the room came up empty, star-wise. I dragged him through the crowd towards a 6'6" Howard Stern look-alike...my good friend-and skip-Sally Sweet.

"Hey, it's fucking Stephanie Plum! How the hell are you, girl?" Sally gave me a bear hug and twirled me around. I caught the look on Junior's face and he had his hand on his gun.

Sally was as tall as Junior, even taller in his black stiletto fuck-me boots. What he lacked in comparison to Junior's hot-and-built Rangeman physique, he made up for with a lot of pasty white skin and black hair. Sally had his signature long black ringlets and hairy chest thing going tonight.

I wiggled out of Sally's arms and said, "It's okay, Junior." I introduced them and they reluctantly bumped fists. Junior said, "You need to have some respect, Mr. Sweet. That's no way to talk to a woman. Especially Ranger Manoso's woman."

"Oh man, far fuckin' out! How the fuck is Ranger anyways? I heard you dumped Morelli and got cozy with the Wizard. Lucky you, sweetheart, fucking lucky you! Except, you know, doll—he's so much prettier than you are, how's that working for you, hmmmm? No fucking disrespect, Steph." He eyed Junior carefully.

I folded my arms across my chest and said, "Ranger and I are not a couple."

Both men stared down at me and mumbled, "Uh huh." _Geez._

Besides the boots Sally was wearing a sequined back tank top and a very tiny red tartan plaid miniskirt. (I sent up a quick prayer to St. Euonymus, the patron saint of public decency that he was _not_ commando under the few inches of fabric that were masquerading as a skirt.) Sally is into accessorizing too, so in addition he wore a dog collar with three inch studded nails and rhinestone chandelier earrings. Lotsa chains and doodads. Black lace Bella gloves. Interesting. I waved a hand at his skirt and said, "Real hot, Sally. Channeling your inner Axl Rose?"

"Huh?"

"Love the boots," I said. "Gucci?'

"Oh man, they're like total fucking knockoffs, Steph. My goddamn feet are so swollen already, I'll be lucky if I can get on stage later."

I nodded sagely."Take them off and elevate your feet until time to go onstage, Sally."

"Yeah, like that will fucking help? I have to maintain my image, doll."

'Speaking of images and maintaining, rumor has it you're FTA."

"I love rumors! Facts can be so misleading, where rumors, true or false, are so revealing."

"Double-talk bullshit won't help your case, Sal. You gotta check in." Junior had grabbed my upper arm and was squeezing it. I was pretty sure he wanted to clap his huge hand over my mouth and drag me to safety.

Sally said, "Now?"

"No, no. Maybe—soon, though." Junior exhaled in relief.

"Soon. Sure. I'll fucking call you, Steph, we'll fucking do lunch!" He air-kissed my cheeks, left, right, left, and hustled off towards the stars' dressing rooms.

Junior said, "That went well."

His face was shiny with perspiration and if he hadn't been so black he'd be looking pale. _Why are the guys so scared of Ranger, anyway?_ I mused.

Junior said, "I hated K-stan. If I fu-mess up this job, Ranger might send me back, Ms Plum. Please!" Huh, he does have Rangeman ESP. He added, almost a whisper, "Boss sent Lester Santos to a pig farm once! His own cousin. A pig farm! In Somalia, they say." He looked grim.

I patted his arm. "No worries. Let's go watch the show."

**tbc**


	7. Chapter 7 Something's Goin' On Here

******_ The Concert_**

******_._**

******_ NOTE: This chapter shows Morelli being mildly unpleasant. _**

******_ If you're a Joe fan, you may not like it...you've been warned! :-)_**

******_

* * *

_**

**previously on The Concert**: _Junior's face was shiny with perspiration and if he hadn't been so black he'd be looking pale. Why are the guys so scared of Ranger, anyway? I mused._

_Junior said, "I hated K-stan. If I fu-mess up this job, Ranger might send me back, Ms Plum. Please!" He added, almost a whisper, "Boss sent Lester Santos to a pig farm once! His own cousin. A pig farm! In Somalia, they say." He looked grim._

_I patted his arm. "No worries. Let's go watch the show__."_

_

* * *

_

.

**_Chapter 7 Somthing's Goin' On_**

**_._**

**Junior **

**Don't get me wrong—I like Ms Plum—**uh, _Stephanie_, gotta learn to call her Stephanie when Ranger's not around... But yeah, I like her, she's pretty and brave and for some unknown reason, hot. A hot little white girl who makes the boss smile. All good, right?

So I like the woman fine. But bodyguarding her ass is the assignment from hell. Odds are, it's gonna go wrong and _my_ ass will be kicked from here to—shit, who knows where. Boss has a rep for beating the crap outta guys who make stupid mistakes, but no...he just sends them to the buttholes of the world. Indefinitely.

Well, yeah, okay, we get beat up by him sometimes...but not 'cos the dude is mad. No, he's just sparring, ya know? Training. I'm even pretty sure he tries not to hurt anyone too bad, but only Tank and that blond kid, what'sisname...Anthony, can get in the ring with Ranger and survive.

Right now we're moving around the perimeter of the arena seating. Ms Plum has my wrist in a choke hold and she's dragging me somewhere. It's damn dark in here and the band is both lame and loud. White men, playin' guitars badly.

Stephanie looks over her shoulder and smiles at me like she heard my thoughts. Man, she is a smokin' piece of...um, well.

We get halfway up the side of the venue, come to a wide tunnel entrance and a man steps out in front of Stephanie, a shadow coming out of the dark. I pull her back against me and save her from a nasty collision. But the man grabs her arms and hisses, "Cupcake! We gotta talk!" He drags her out into the lobby, me attached to her like a leech. Sicko conga line, man.

In the subdued lighting I recognize the cop, Morelli.

... ... ...

"Cupcake! We need to talk," he says again.

"Your time for talking ended when I caught you and Terry in bed together, Morelli."

"Man, you're going to hold a grudge forever about that? This feud you have going against Terry is absurd. It was just a little fun, if you satisfied me in-"

" You and your friggin "boys" always seemed satisfied when we were together."

_TMI, Ms Plum._

"And I am NOT feuding with Terry!"

"Well, with me then? How long can you hold a grudge, anyway? What about my feelings, my,well—my reputation? Huh? You just ran right to Ranger, what's with that? You need to get over yourself and then we can get on with our lives, Cupcake."

"I did not run right to Ranger..."

"And you know what," he interrupted, "if you weren't so damn independent, so hardheaded, you'd settle down and be a mom like every other girl from the Burg. Be a little less assertive, you could still be Mrs. Joe Morelli. If you're lucky." He smirked.

"I like my independence, Joe. Oh and hey, Gilman is not a mom, is she? No, huh uh, she's a freakin' Mob hit man!" Stephanie was shrieking, partly because the music was so loud and mostly because Morelli is an ass and she was pissed off. Unfortunately the last sentence was delivered during a lull in the set and it echoed around the concrete lobby, causing people to turn and stare.

I decided I better intervene. "Miss Plum." I grasped her elbow to steer her away from the cop. _Ooomphf._ Reflexively she elbowed me in the gut. Hard. I gasped and let go. Morelli took advantage and he pulled her to his side. "Get rid of the goon."

"He's not a goon, he's Junior. Junior, this is Joseph Morelli, TPD."

I nodded politely. He ignored me.

He loomed over Stephanie and whispered loudly (music was going again...) "Something isn't right with this job tonight. Ranger is up to something!"

"Oh yeah, Joe? Like, what?"

"I'm not sure...no clue actually...but those guys with him are not ATF, are they?"

"Did he say they were?"

"I was given to believe...but I think they are Homeland Security, or Antiterrorism Task Force."

"Geez, Joe, ya think?" Her pretty voice dripped sarcasm. And Jersey. Took me years to get used to the accents up north here.

Morelli and Ms. Plum both suddenly turned at looked at me. I gave them my patented Rangeman blank look, said, "Sorry, boss don't _con_fide."

Morelli mumbled a crude curse in Italian and stormed off in a huff. Ms. Plum stayed and stared at me. The woman knows the boss doesn't confide...but he does present detailed briefings as needed. Then she too stomped off into the yelling, singing crowd.

I followed, of course. Orders.

**tbc**


	8. Chapter 8 Plan? What Plan?

**__****The Concert **

**_._**

**_Thank you to everyone for reading! And especially thanks for your reviews! Reviews are important, so please take the time to leave me a note. It means so much! thx. sunny_**

**_enjoy!_**

* * *

**previously on The Concert**: _I usher both HLS agents—I'm gonna call them Smith and Jones for this op, they like that shit—back into the conference room and shut the door. This conference room is, well, discreet. Covert even..._

_._

_._

**_Chapter 8 _**_**The Plan [Boss, what plan?]**_

_**.**_

**_Agent Jones_**

**_._**

**Earlier today we worked with Carlos Manoso** and Rangeman to coordinate the takedown of suspected terrorist Abdullah bin Hasheed. I sat with my colleague from Homeland Security, Agent Nathan "Smith". Manoso has decided to call us Smith and Jones—his only hint of humor thus far. _Ha ha, see me laughing_?—And around the conference table was an array of Manoso's usual thugs and misfits. Manoso himself sat silent and affectless while a tattooed young white kid called Vince read us the latest intell off his laptop.

"We have confirmed information that bin Hasheed has requested and been granted extended accrued vacation time from his place of employment."

Rangeman guys always did military/ cop speak—he couldn't just say: _took time off from his job_?

I said, "Still inconclusive."

Vince glanced at me, continued. "As you may know, in the NY/NJ metro area, concert venues require paper tickets. E-tix and on-line printouts are not acceptable here. bin Hasheed's concert ticket was delivered to him Monday via FedEx."

"So—okay, " I conceded.

.

**And now here we are. Project Stop **the Asshole is a _go_ tonight. I stood on the sidelines and watched Manoso and his hulking XO make a methodical circumnav' of the arena floor. From my vantage point I could see the empty twelfth row seat belonging to bin Hasheed and I picked out a few of Ranger's men in seats nearby.

_Better them than me._

Surprisingly Manoso caused little reaction in the audience. I had figured it would be hard to blend when you look like _that_ and are shadowed by a 6' 6"/ 275 pound guy who looks like _that_. The darkness of the room against the bright stage spotlights helped disguise Manoso's face as did the black Yankees hat, and only a few young women did double takes and tripped over their own silly feet. Maybe, well, a couple dozen or so...

Now Manoso and Tank slid up next to me and Smith. Manoso shrugged. "Nothing, nada."

"Nothing! We have a national security matter here!"

"Good for you," deadpanned Manoso.

"Hello? Mad terrorist bomber? Armageddon?"

"And?"

Smith intervened before I could pull my Beretta and shoot this jerk. Smith shouldered me aside and said, "What's your contingency plan, sir?"

Manoso raised an eyebrow. "Contingency plan?"

Tank spoke. "We're gonna hang out in the lobby and look for a demented guy with crazy eyes, dressed in a big winter puffer parka."

"That's it? But—your backup plan? You must have a backup plan."

Tank smiled. Scary. He said, "No, we don't have a backup plan. This is it."

I shoved Smith out of my way and yelled, "You're out of your fucking minds."

"Fifty kilos of C4 and whatever he can carry of the additional 150 kilos of dynamite aren't easy to hide, Agent Jones. We discussed this exhaustively at a prior briefing." I leaned in closer because Manoso talked softly and the music was loud. "Either the guy will be wearing a huge inappropriately heavy jacket or he'll be doing a Fat Albert in a XXXL t-shirt—"

Tank said, "Excuse me? I wear a—"

Manoso silenced him with a glance. "Just sayin', " mumbled Tank, looking forlornly at the XXXL concert t-shirt he held in his huge hand.

Manoso added, "These are just warm-up bands, Jones. The big names will be on after twenty-one hundred hours. Uh, nine-thirty-ish? And bin Hasheed will time his entrance for maximum effect. He's crazy but not stupid. And we will grab him and haul his ass off to our bombproof SUV. End of story." He then turned and faded into the still arriving crowd.

"But—" I said helplessly, watching him disappear.

Tank patted my shoulder. _Bam. Bam bam bam._ _(ouch)_ He said, "Ranger wouldn't let Ms Plum come here tonight if he thought there was any danger. Don't worry, my man. It'll be cool. No problem."

And he disappeared too.

"Great," I muttered to Smith. "Fucking great,"

**_to be continued_**


	9. Chapter 9

******The Concert**

******.**

******.**

**Previously on The Concert:**

In a bored tone the guard said, "Take the elevators to down to B-3. That's the backstage area for the music groups."

"Basement?" I asked. "You're telling me the backstage is in the fuckin' basement?"

"Yeah, lady, B1 is private VIP offices and board rooms, B2 is locker rooms for the Jets and Giants and visiting teams. And the concessions loading dock access. Singers and politicians get to go to three. Ladies toilets on B6, that other elevator there."

* * *

**Chapter Nine ~ There's Always a Line**

**.**

**_Vince_**

**Somehow I got stuck running the comm operations **for the Meadowlands job. Sitting in the office in Trenton sucked and my ass was cramped bigtime. _Maaaay_be it's better than being blown up?...Naw.

The regular Rangeman phone line buzzed on my desk and I picked it up said, "Rangeman, Vince speaking."

"Vincent, my man! Mike Stortag here, how's it going?"

It was the President's Press Secretary, the idiot known as Michael Stortag, on the line. He didn't wait for my non-response, just babbled on, "The President definitely wants to be there tonight. At the concert for, uh...? And anyway, he's already there in Jersey, might as well help out one of the little guys, am I right, am I right?"

Joe Juniak who was running for the Senate probably wouldn't be thrilled to be a little guy but I grunted agreeably. The man went on, "The President was in Edison today for photo op. Surely you saw?"

"Uh, no." _Got real stuff to do..._

"He has a film crew with him 24/ 7, filming everything. This morning he rode a Harley Hog, part of a Hell's Angels' charity drive. Those guys donate to little kids with cancer, did you know that? They're not just beer-bellied punks, am I right?"

"Uh huh."

"Then the President ate a late lunch at Big Dick's Subs in Edison. The place is a landmark, been there since 1963."

_Just like Pino's. And Shorty's. Big deal. Grease stains and cockroaches._

"Then he's meeting with the restaurant owner and other little guys to discuss tax credits for small businesses. Maybe your boss will be interested. You gotta tell him about it."

Sure, the boss would love to save a buck, but I doubt that Ranger, with four East Coast offices of Rangeman, secondary set-ups in Las Vegas, LA and Chicago, the international RMPMC division, plus the big bucks private contracting, would qualify as a _small _business owner, lol. I said, "Uh huh."

"So...the big guy wants to time his entrance for the finale, you know, the encores? He'll get up on stage put in the good word for the New Jersey guy, what's his name, sing _We Are the World_ with everyone, big group hug, smiles and waves, end of story...what? Hey, are you there?"

Not _We Are the World_! Please!

Actually he lost me at _group hug_. I was pretty sure Ranger didn't do group hugs and wouldn't want any part of that scenario...and _end of story_ sounded awfully ominous under the circumstances. I was guessing Stortag didn't know about the bomb threat.

I said, "Sure. No problem. Get your man there at 23.00, we'll get him in and out right on cue."

"Good to work with professionals, uh...?" said Stortag.

"Vince, my name is Vince."

"Yeah."

"Uh, speaking of professionals I need to coordinate this with the Presidential Secret Service detail. Who's the head guy there on this?"

"What, my word isn't enough? I'm the White House PRESS Secretary."

"Uh huh. Name of? Number?'

"Oh okay..." He reeled off the name and number of the agent running the President's security set-up.

Thank god. He's a smart guy and we know him. I dialed the Secret Service agent in charge.

...

.

_**Junior**_

**"Ms Plum, Springsteen is coming on in like 30 seconds**." I knew I was whining but even I heard of Bruce Springsteen. Not my taste in music, but...

"I haaave to GO, Junior. I've been peeing by myself since I was two, I can go to the ladies room by myself. You stay here."

I rolled my eyes. _Yeah. Right._ And did she just _have_ to drink two huge, supersize regular Cokes? If the terrorist doesn't kill her, the sugar will do the job. I followed her into the packed elevator and down to the bathrooms on B-6. She jiggled like a three year old the whole time, too.

Twenty minutes later the Boss (Springsteen, not Ranger) was doing some sad-sack mournful thing—but _loud_, we could hear it when we finally got on the elevator again. Stephanie shrugged at me. "What? There was a line, there's always a line in the girls' bathroom."

"Why?"

Ms Plum—Stephanie—ignored my question and gave me a sweet version of her death glare and said, "While I was waiting, I was thinking and...Ranger's up to something. I can tell. Morelli could tell. He may be an ass but he's a smart detective. Spill. Or I'll get Ranger to send you to, uh...well, somewhere."

"You wouldn't."

"I would!"

Our standoff was interrupted by a stop on B-two and a heavyset little guy wearing Budweiser coveralls rolled in a metal hand truck piled high with three aluminum kegs for the concession stands. He clanked his way between us and laboriously turned himself and the standup dolly to face front. I could smell his sweat and wrinkled my nose involuntarily. I glanced at Steph who was pretending to rub her nose on her sweatshirt sleeve.

She ignored the delivery guy and said, "What? Tell me!"

"Boss is just worried because there's been some talk of a ..." I mouthed the word over the man's head, I'm not so stupid I'd say _bomb threat_ in public. Way to cause anarchy, right? Chaos, bigtime.

Stephanie's big blue eyes got huge then narrowed in annoyance. She said, "No way! Been there, done that! Sucks! "

I nodded. "Nothing like a bomb to give you a really bad hair day, hmmm, Ms Plum?" _Ooops._

The Bud guy reached out and pressed the stop button and his hand jabbed something hard into my side. I felt the jolt of a Taser and as I went down, I heard Steph yelling my name. But I was thinking _Helloooo__, Somalia._

_... ... ..._

_._

**The man pushed back his Bud cap **and glared at Stephanie. "The kegs are filled with plastique—plastic explosives—and dynamite. You will do exactly as I tell you."

tbc


	10. Chapter 10 Out of the Loop

_**The Concert**_

_**.**_

_**.**_

_**previously on The Concert:**_ Joe explained in as little detail as he possibly could. I said, "I'm sure Ranger can get you in, provide a cover story."

"Yeah, the big man. He could get us in to see the friggin' President, probably, right?" Joe was sarcastic.

From behind him Ranger said, "Do you really want to meet the president? I can't see how he'd add anything to this op. And logistically his presence would be a nightmare."

Joe jumped a little. "It was a figure of speech, Manoso."

* * *

.

_**Th Chapter Ten: Out of The Loop**_

_**.**_

_**Morelli**_

**I leaned against the lobby wall with a full view**of half a dozen concession stands and tried hard to control my notoriously nasty Italian temper. But, man, was I ever pissed off. I wasn't out of the loop on this job, there was no fucking loop here at all. The "joint task force" operation was a friggin' fishing expedition, not even surveillance or a fact-finding case. Tonight's event was not a rock concert, it was a political rally, full of mostly white middleclass solid citizens ranging in age from yuppie to baby boomer. The average age here tonight was probably at least forty-five.

_What the hell am I here for?_ I wondered. _I could be home watching baseball and drinking a beer._Sure, the ATF-DEA-TPD Joint Task Force looks good on my work record but this really sucks. ATF, aka Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, my hairy white Italian ass! No beer was being served, so no chance of underage sales to minors. And it was a smoke free venue, so no illegal tobacco sales either. And I was fairly certain that the only illegal firearms here tonight belonged to Ranger's goons. As for the DEA, there was no inkling of any crystal meth sales set-up. The stadium just opened tonight, it was brand new. How could the mechanicals of a meth distribution structure even be in place? And other drugs? Ha! Maybe Sally Sweet took a toke or two tonight but everyone else here seemed depressingly sober and law abiding.

I repressed the urge to kick the new concrete wall and surveyed the excited, happy crowd. And I caught a glimpse of Ranger himself, standing in the shadows, looking alert and predatory. How my Cupcake could prefer him over me was a mystery. Okay, I admit he's mysterious and I suppose not bad-looking, but I'm the Italian Stallion, fer chrissakes.

My eyes inadvertently locked with Ranger's dark fathomless stare at just that point in my jumbled mental tirade. And his mouth curved up into a derisive almost-smile, as if he read my mind. Creepy.

"Joseph!" Chalk on blackboard voice, calling my name.

I turned. "Helen. Frank. Good to see you both."

See what I mean about the audience? This was Steph's _parents_ here. Frank Plum gave a cool nod, while Mrs. Plum gushed, "Oh Joseph, we miss you so much at our Friday dinner table!"

"Well—"

"Helen, please. Don't put Morelli on the spot. You know Stephanie dumped him months ago," intervened Frank.

"Oooh. Well. Whatever was she thinking?"

"Helen, we should go sit down. The Boss's set will be starting soon."

"Well, I'm not such a Springsteen fan, Frank. You know, Joseph, we mostly came to support Joe Juniak, he's my mother's second cousin's brother-in-law's uncle, so he's family. Is that why you're here?"

"Ah, well, I..."

We were distracted by a small flurry of activity near the elevators. We all turned to look and there was Ranger headed our way with a slightly built man who had very big ears and wore an ill-fitting blue suit, white shirt, red tie. The rest of the group seemed composed mainly of large shaven-headed white men with black suits and earbuds. And Ranger.

He caught my eye and said, "Morelli,"

Helen suddenly gasped and said, "Oh, my."

Yes. It was. It really was the President of the United States, up close and in person and in the company of Ranger Manoso.

Ranger and the President stopped in front of us and Ranger, oddly formal, said, "Sir, these are the parents of a friend of mine: Helen and Frank Plum." Handshakes all around. "And this is Detective Joseph Morelli of the Trenton Police Department."

I too shook the President's hand. He said, "Carlos especially wanted me to meet you, Detective Morelli. He tells me you do excellent work."

"Uh. Thank you, Mr. President." _Carlos?_

"Are you all enjoying the show tonight?"

We nodded wordlessly. The President went on, "I'm glad I had the chance to attend too. I feel it's important to be supportive of the little people in politics."

Helen Plum said, "Little people? Like the Pit Boss on Animal Planet? You know, he rescues pit bulls and he's, well, small. I love that show! But Joe Juniak is as tall as you are! Probably taller."

"Well, no, I mean the rank and file—the average man, the so called "little guy" of the political arena. At a grassroots level."

"Not much grass roots here in Jersey, Mr. President, " growled Mr. Plum.

One of the presidential entourage people—not a man-in-black—grasped the President's elbow and drew him aside before he dug himself in hopelessly too deep. I noticed Ranger looking resolutely deadpan and wondered if he'd crack up laughing in another second or two.

But no. Too bad.

The lackey told the President, "Sir, soon you'll have to be ready to go on for your speech. We should go." Another flurry of handshakes, a guy-hug for Ranger, and then our nation's leader was hustled away. We watched him leave, Ranger standing next to me in silence.

"Well, boys, that was a thrill. Who knew his ears were...well. Come on, Frank, you're going to miss your Boss, if we don't hurry!" The Plums hurried off, Frank turning for an instant to give Ranger a quick speculative stare.

Ranger gave a faint nod in return then turned to me and shrugged a little. He said, "What? You said you wanted to me to introduce you to the President, didn't you?"

He made a little gesture, like, _voila`_.

Finally I said, "The President calls you _Carlos. Carlos_!"

"And?"

"He hugged you!"

"And?"

"I, uh—nothing."

Ranger waited a moment but I had no words. He silently faded into the darkness.

... ... ...

.

**_Ranger_**

_**Well, that was, ah, different,**_** I thought** as I again took up a position next to Tank, monitoring the terrorist's empty seat, the stage entrances and the performers' holding pen or _green room_ where the Secret Service had stashed the President.

Tank said, "How'd it go?"

"I'm not sure," I answered. "Morelli seemed...unhappy. Or confused. Like maybe he doesn't want an invitation to the White House golf outing next month."

"Huh. No loss, Rangeman."

"Yeah. Maybe it was just me—" My thought was interrupted by the vibration of my personal cell phone in my right pocket. I had on me—besides my weapons—my cell phone, a pager (General XXX), an encrypted sat phone (CIA/ FBI),a comm unit and a Secret Service curly wire earbud and operations connection. Sometimes I need four ears. And a big black pocketbook like Steph carries.

I grinned, then I flicked on my phone and said, "Yo."

"Dude."

"Anthony. What's up?"

"Not much, man. You?"

"I'm taking down a terrorist, bro. Remember?"

"Right now?"

"Soon."

"So—you got a minute?"

I sighed. "Yeah. What?"

"I got this, like phone call, man. They want me to be on _Top Shot_."*

?

"You know, reality? TV?"

"How did they acquire your name?"

"Some of the guys who compete are ex-spec ops, my name _is_ known. Sort of. In certain circles."

"But."

"It would be so—awesome."

"Are you out of your freakin' mind? It's a TV show!"

"But they do such cool things! They don't just shoot, they throw knives! They use slingshots, they do trick shots...I can do all that, man, you know I can. I'm really good at it."

"Yes, but."

"What?"

"What if you win?"

"Of course I'd win, man, geez. The winner gets 100 grand! Wow."

"What the fuck do you want a hundred thousand dollars for, anyway? Use it to pay for sex wax for your surfboard? Buy—bubble gum? A deposit on another Ferrari?"

"Well, it's just the idea, dude. It would be fun. And I could, uh, give it to charity?"

_sigh_

"No. It'd make the other guys look bad when they want to keep the prize money."

"I could give it to them? To the other guys, the _losers_. They'd get, uh, 5 grand apiece?"

"No. And what if one of the challenges involved hand-to-hand combat? And you—ooops—accidentally killed someone?"

"I hardly ever kill anyone by accident, my man. It's a job."

_Riiiight._

"And, most important: The main issue is that your fucking face would be all over TV, bro."

"Not really, it's like The _History_ Channel. Who watches that?"

"You do."

"And you?"

"I have no time for TV, and right now I have a crazed Pakistani terrorist who's due here to meet the President at any moment. I'm a fucking social secretary tonight."

"Bummer. But, like you've seen it, right? Once in a while?"

"Look, I gotta go."

"What should I tell them?"

"Anthony, you're, what? 26 years old? You're all grown up, you decide."

"Huh."

"Okay? You can do that? Make a rational decision, kid? And, please, for my peace of mind—silence whoever gave out your name and number."

"Like, _silence_ them?"

"No! Just ensure their discretion."

"Okay...Ranger?"

"Hmmm?"

"They didn't ask you?"

"No."

"Bummer."

... ... ... ...

**My cell rings again before I can stow it away.** Simultaneously our comm units buzz. My eyes meet Tank's and we both click on the devices and listen.

My vision goes grey and I almost pass out. Only Tank's grasp on my bicep holds me upright. I force myself to focus—just seconds have passed, the lines on all our units are still open and broadcasting desperately.

Tank and I take off running.

**tbc**

**

* * *

**

a/n **Top Shot **is a reality show on the History Channel ? Discovery Channel?. It involves 20 various people, who for different reasons, are considered excellent marksmen, in their fields of expertise. Each week they learn new (usually silly) weapons and then compete, till everyone is eliminated. Some of the contestants are ex-military or military reservists, plus police officers and hobbyists.


	11. Chapter 11 Gone Like the Wind

**__****The Concert **

**__****.**

**Many thanks to everyone who read and reviewd. Your reviews mean so much! Thank you! sunny **

**Hal's lines at the end are from Sixteen. Standard fanfic disclaimers apply.**

**

* * *

**

.

**Previously on The Concert:**

**My cell rings and simultaneously **our comm units buzz. My eyes meet Tank's and we both click on the devices and listen.

Tank and I take off running.

_Meanwhile, back at the elevators..._ The Bud guy reached out and pressed the stop button and his hand jabbed something hard into Junior's side. He felt the jolt of a Taser and as he went down, he heard Steph yelling his name. But he was thinking _Helloooo, Somalia._

The man pushed back his Bud cap and glared at Stephanie. "The kegs are filled with plastique-plastic explosives-and dynamite. You will do exactly as I tell you."

... ... ... ... ... ...

.

_**Chapter Eleven**_

_**Stephanie**_

_**.**_

_**What? This cretin is gonna make me miss**__ the second half of Springsteen's set? I don't think so._

I watched poor Junior slide to the floor and I lost it. _Whack!_ "I am not missing the Boss!" I smacked the Budweiser man with my twenty pound Jersey girl handbag.

He looked dazed but he turned to me and I saw the Taser. "Oh no, no fricken way! Are you not listening? This is the new Stephanie Plum here!" _Whack! _again with the pocket book. "NO stun guns. And NO bombs! What the hell is wrong with you anyway?"

Little did I know a few years from now another jerk called Scrog would prove me wrong about the bombs and stun guns. But not tonight! I hit the button to reactivate the elevator, the doors opened on the main arena floor. I pushed the hand truck aside and sent a well-aimed kick into Budweiser-Man's family jewels. The man howled and inadvertently shoved the hand truck through the opening door, where it caught the doorjamb and stalled, throwing the kegs into the lobby.

They didn't explode. Thank god.

But they still could.

The Bud guy cursed me in some foreign language, prompting a woozy _Hey_ from Junior. The man aimed an awkward kick at Junior, caught him in the chin. Junior's eyes rolled up in his head and he went down again. "Hey!" I echoed and was sent spinning by the chubby guy's arm. I landed next to Junior, sat there dazed for a moment, then I grabbed his comm unit and called Ranger, while simultaneously pressing 1 on my speed dial, also for Ranger.

"Junior?" I fumbled for his pulse. "Officer down," I yelled to the growing crowd, "Call 911."

"We're here, Cupcake, " said Morelli over my head. His pasty white boy feds and some uniflroms stared down at me.

I jumped to my feet, "Take care of him, he's Ranger's man." And I ran after the Budweiser man, seeing his bulky blue and no doubt bomb-laden jumpsuit fade into the mass of gawkers. In one ear I could hear Ranger yelling, "Babe?" And in my other ear I could hear both him and Tank yelling, "Stephanie? Babe?"

"The bomber! You know, your top-secret threat, crazed bomber?"

_"Babe?_" Ranger, taking the time to do a _who-me?_

"He's dressed like a beer deliveryman. He's short, fat, sweaty...um, maybe he's not fat, that's more explosives, probably, right? ("Babe...") Looks Middle Eastern... Ranger? Is that rude? You know, racial profiling? Well, anyway," I continued over his next exasperated _Babe_, "the beer kegs may be BOMBS!" I yelled to both Tank and Ranger on the phones and also to Morelli and Ranger's weirdo men-in-black fed guys, who had all taken up the chase alongside me.

Ooops. _Bomb_ is _so_ a four letter word.

Stampede for the door. I strong-armed everyone aside and followed the beer man. As I fought through the panicking crowd I could hear Bruce yelling, _"...c'mon, Wendy, tramps like us, baby, we were booooorn to run! Yeah baby tramps like us...!"_ and I didn't pause but I took a brief instant to think that obviously The Boss and Ranger didn't inhabit _my_ New Jersey, because everyone knows Jersey girls do _not_ run. A warm hand grabbed my arm above my elbow and urged me on; Ranger's amused voice said, "It's a metaphor, babe."

_Metaphor this!_ I ESPed and he grinned. I figure there is nothing in this world that Ranger loves as much as he loves the chase. Even if we're chasing a mad bomber.

When we ran down the arena steps, we could see the presidential cavalcade parked around the side near the back entrance. And at the curb straight ahead was the new Rangeman SUV-tank thing, flanked by two traditional Rangeman black Ford Expeditions. The Conquest Knight XV was huge and black and manly-looking. Probably the President took one look at it and succumbed to, uh, SUV envy. The Merry Man who was behind the wheel saw the ruckus and opened the door, got out drawing his weapon. He stepped forward a few yards to get a better look and the Budweiser guy, aka bin Hasheed, barreled into him, sending the Merry Man spinning away and rolling to the concrete ground. The Rangeman guy looked stunned but got to his hands and knees, yelled _Hey!_ as the terrorist dove into the mammoth SUV. And slammed and locked the doors. The Rangeman driver stood and pointed his gun at the windshield but didn't shoot, maybe because he remembered it was bulletproof or probably because he knew the giant vehicle cost almost a million US dollars.

Next to me Ranger froze for one brief instant, then shoved me down behind a brick and concrete planter thing full of ugly red, white and purple petunias. The New Jersey state flower, ha-ha.

"Stay there," he yelled and then he ran towards his man who still seemed stunned. I jumped up and followed, watched in disbelief as Ranger executed a crisp shoulder-block tackle and forced his man into action. They rolled away from the huge SUV, behind the first black Expedition then they ran back towards me. This time Ranger didn't bother to issue orders, he just scooped me over his shoulder and ran with me and his guy, back behind the wall, yelling non-stop, "Get down, get down, bomb." The crowd gasped and fled. Total chaos.

The three of us landed in a messy heap, the Rangeman agent looking mortified behind his blank face.

"Sir!"

Ranger held up a hand and the man went silent.

The world went silent.

We peeked over the petunias at the tank-car. We could see the pale circle of bin Hasheed's face, his eyes wide and crazed, and we could hear muffled music from the concert and then his screamed words about Allah.

Whomp.

The vehicle imploded in a gust of flames and explosives. The outside was pristine, the inside an inferno of death and delusion. We stood and watched, and even I could not immediately find words.

"Geez," I whispered.

"Babe."

"It wasn't my fault!"

"Babe."

"It. Was. Not. My fault."

Tank stood over us, looking at smoking vehicle. "Damn."

"Babe, that car had 100% bullet-proof bodywork, a 6.8-litre V10 engine with 400 horsepower, and it weighed five tons."

Tank went on, "Armor plating, bulletproof glass, run-flat tires, anti-bomb reinforced chassis..."

Ranger continued, "An oxygen breathing system, internal fire extinguishers, night vision cameras..."

"TV camera and screens. DVD player. Leather seats. Custom carpets. Laptops built in-with Wi-Fi..."

"It took six months to build," sighed Ranger.

Tank whispered, "950 K. Gone like the wind."

Ranger and I both said, "What?"

The President walked up, looked at the smoking rubble and said, "Damn!"

I opened my mouth to tell the president that it wasn't my fault, but discordant rock chords drowned me out. Mic feedback, then Sally Sweet yelled, "Sorry for the fucking delay, folks! How is everyone tonight?"

The crowd still in the stadium yelled.

"Are you guys all from fuckin' Jersey?"

Howls and cheers. Yeah, they're from Jersey all right.

"Well, people, we blew us up a freakin' terrorist tonight so I say, Fuck that! Boogie on, dudes," yelled Sally. The President and maybe Ranger winced a little.

We could hear raucous screams and cheers.

"Please _again_ welcome The Boss!"

The Rangeman guys all looked at Ranger who was still standing silently by the president, encircled now by secret service agents and Trenton cops.

Instead of an unprecedented public appearance by Ranger, Bruce Springsteen screamed out intro to _Born to Run_. Again. Guess the song got interrupted before. The Merry Men looked perplexed in a blank-faced kind of way.

Ranger clearly still had his mind focused on the Knight XV. He told the President, "It's bomb-proof."

"I see."

"So it contained the explosion." said the Merry Man who Ranger called Mick, the guy who had been driving the mammoth car.

"Yes. Good job, man," said Ranger and clapped him on the shoulder. Mick winced, but looked proud despite his bruised shoulder from the various tackles he'd sustained.

"Good tackle, sir."

"Ranger."

"Ranger. Did you play football, sir?"

"Football? No, golf."

The President and Mick and I said, "Golf?"

"And baseball. I wanted to be a major league pitcher, babe."

"And instead they made you Batman?" I said.

"What?"

I said, "Nevermind," and realized my face was covered with tears. He wrapped me in his big warm arms and hugged me to his chest while I sobbed.

With my face buried in Ranger's leather jacket, his gun in its shoulder holster digging into my cheekbone, I heard Hal's muffled voice tell Ranger ,"The kegs were just beer, Ranger. Bomb squad is coming anyway."

"Too late for that," said Ranger calmly.

Hal said, "How bad is it? Do you want me to, you know, get rid of anything?'

I raised my head and stared at Hal. "Like a body?" I asked, hating that my voice quavered and broke on a new sob.

"Yeah, " said Hal.

Ranger kept an arm around my shoulders and turned to contemplate the black vehicle, its interior still a ball of flames.

He said, "Maybe a flatbed. I think the XV is a goner."

"Yessir, Ranger. I'll call Al for a tow."

"Babe. You up to tagging Sally Sweet?"

I shook my head. "I'll pick him up tomorrow. Can we just go home?"

"You'll miss The Boss's encore, babe."

Over the sirens of the approaching East Rutherford volunteer fire department's trucks, I could hear Sally Sweet still on stage, the familiar music began, _'We are the world..."_

I said, "Not an issue."

THE END


End file.
